My
eyelids felt as if giant weights were resting on them as I slowly
forced them open. Every part of my body ached, but my head and
stomach were unbearable. It felt like some sadistic 4-year-old was
stabbing me repeatedly with a white-hot iron.

This
must be Hell, I thought, groaning at a particularly painful jab.

Oh,
it's not, but I'll make sure you wish it were.

I
was alive, but I would have rather been dead. I groaned again and
closed my eyes.

The
next time I opened them, my mother's face was looming in front of
my. I gasped – which sent pins and needles throughout my body –
and winced back into my pillow.

"Oh! Sweetie!"
Tears were streaming down her face as she threw her arms around my
neck. My mom is not a pretty crier. Her eyes get all swollen and
her face turns red and blotchy. Her inability to cry pretty was
probably why she never made it into show business, as was her dream.
"The doctor said it was an overdose, probably attempted suicide,
but I just know it wasn't. I know you'd never do anything like
that. I told him, I said, 'Anna's a good girl. She wouldn't
do anything like that.'"

Oh, how I did not want
to explain to her what really happened.

Too cowardly? I
know you are. Suicide is a coward's way out, and you couldn't
even do that right.

I ignored her and
looked around. The air smelled lemony-pine fresh and the walls were
with whites and demure blues. I cringed. Even before my father's
death, I was never fond of hospital, but after his death last year,
it's been even worse. I could feel my heart rate speeding up.

"Mom?" I croaked
out, interrupting her, "Can you call a doctor?"

She nodded. "Of
course, baby." She pressed a button above my bed and the next
thing I knew, the doctor was by my bed, injecting something into my
IV.

"Brandie," I
breathed before drifting off into sleep. "Her name is
Brandie."

While I slept,
sedated, I dreamt I was back in second grade. There was this girl
named Brandie in my class. She was my worst enemy. She cheated off
of my test (she honestly couldn't figure out what 7+7 was), she
pushed me around at recess, and she stole my lunch money. Worst of
all, she spread horrible rumors about. I know, I know, second
graders barely know what rumor is, but Brandie was sure able to
spread some nasty ones. Basically, this girl made my whole second
grade a living hell.

I woke several times
during those first few days in the hospital, always unaware of time
and place. Once I woke just as Shannon and Lily were entering my
room. I moaned and closed my eyes. Of all the people I didn't
want to face, they were on the top of the list.

"I'm sorry girls,"
I heard my doctor say," she's very heavily sedated. She won't
be fully capable to take visitors for at least a couple more days."

Thank you, Dr.
Moore, I thought to myself, before drifting back into sleep.

As the doctors slowly
weaned me off the morphine, I was awake for longer and longer periods
of time. While that meant I could catch up on some of my schoolwork,
it also meant Brandie, as I now called her, spent more time yelling
at me.

Why do you even
bother doing schoolwork? She asked. They're just going to
haul you off to the loony bin as soon as you're cured.

"Do you now
what caused the War of 1812?" I asked her, scratching my head with
my pen. "I think it was the embargo."

You're even
carrying on conversations with me. And you've named me! Thought
it is a rather nice name. But you're certainly insane.

I ignored her
and turned on the television.

But
Brandie's incessant ranting wasn't even the worst thing about the
hospital stay. The worst thing about the hospital was that my
insanity seemed to manifest itself in my actions. Every time lunch
came, I had to grip the rails of my bed not to pick up the fork and
stab the orderly repeatedly. I even considered using my remote to
bludgeon my roommate, who would not stop coughing.

"I
thought hospitals are supposed to make you better," I observed,
doing the crossword one morning. Brandie hadn't shut up all night,
and I didn't get a wink of sleep. "At least I'm going home
tomorrow."

"Anna,"
Dr. Moore asked, knocking on my door. "You decent?"

"Yeah,"
I said, "Come on in."

He opened the door and
began to do the regular routine; checking my pulse and vital signs,
taking my temperature, the usual.

"So, Doc, can I go
home tomorrow?" The nurse had already said I was ready to be
discharged, and I was anxious to put everything behind me and go
home.

"Well there's just
one more thing, Anna." Dr. Moore pushed his glassed up and looked
at his clipboard. "I've noticed some odd brainwave patterns, and
you've been talking in your sleep, saying disturbing things."

My heart started
racing. I knew where this was going.

"Call your mother,
Anna. We need to talk."

A/N: I like this chapter a lot more than the last one, but it's still mostly filler. PLOT DEVELOMPENT NEXT CHAPTER! Yay.

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